[LLUSTRA'  ED    POEMS 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


;• 


vu 


ILLUSTRATED  POEMS 


OF 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS   BY 

George  Randolph  Barse,  Frederic  Crowninsbield,  Frances  Houston,  William 

Formby  Halsall,  Helen  Maria  Hinds,  Francis  Coales  Jones,  Hugh  Bolton 

Jones,  George  WUlougbby  Maynard,  Charles  Elliott  Mills, John  Francis 

Murphy,  Howard  Pyle,  Louis  Ritter,  William  Henry  Shelton, 

William  Thomas  Smedley,  Sidney  Lawton  Smith,  Isaac  H. 

Stiefel,  Charles  John  Taylor,  William  L.  Taylor, 

Ross  Turner.  Frederic  Porter  Vinton 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

New  York  :   11  East  Seventeenth  Street 
C&e  Btomsrtie  Press,  CambriUcje 

1885 


Copyright,  1858,  1859,  1861,  1874,  1875,  and  1880, 

BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  JAMES   R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  AND 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1884, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 


All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


AVE )X 

OLD    IRONSIDES    .  •                                      .             .         I 

THE   LAST    LEAF          .  •               2 

THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION            .  -4 

MY  AVIARY        .  ...                        .10 

ON    LENDING    A    PUNCH-BOWL  .                                                                •       15 

THE   PLOUGHMAN      .            .  19 

A   MOTHER'S    SECRET    .  •      22 

THE   VOICELESS          .            .  26 

THE   TWO    STREAMS       .  •       27 

BROTHER   JONATHAN'S    LAMENT  FOR   SISTER   CAROLINE     .            28 

THE    FLOWER    OF    LIBERTY   .  •       3° 

THE    CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS     .  3i 

SUN    AND    SHADOW        .  •       33 

UNDER   THE    VIOLETS         .  34 

HYMN    OF   TRUST  •       3<> 

DOROTHY   Q      .  37 

THE    ORGAN-BLOWER    .  •      4o 

A   BALLAD    OF   THE    BOSTON   TEA-PARTY    .  43 

LEXINGTON             .  48 

GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY  OF    BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE  .  51 
BILL  AND  JOE 

CONTENTMENT            .  64 

THF    DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE;  OR,  THE  WONDF.RFUL   "  ONE-Hoss 

SHAY"     ...  -            -                                               68 
DE  SAUTY    . 
THE    FIRST    FAN 

NEARING   THE    SNOW   LINE.  •      82 

THE   SILENT    MELODY         .  83 

THE   IRON    GATE 86 


930798 


LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PORTRAIT,  etching 

Tail  piece 

AVE. 

Head  piece 

Tail  piece 

OLD    IRONSIDES. 

Head  piece 

"  And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale !" 

THE    LAST    LEAF. 

Head  piece,  The  Old  State  House 

"  The  la*t  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring  " 

THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

Head  piece 

"  Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high" 

"  With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ?  "      .... 

Tail  piece.     Anemone 

MY   AVIARY. 

"  /  see  I  he  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On    some    broad    ice-floe,  pondering    long  and 

late" 

"  The  duck,  round-breas'ed  as  a  rustic  maiden, 

Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy,  still ''   .      .      . 
"  Through  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  weather" 

"My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore" 

"  In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill" 

ON    LENDING   A    PUNCH-BOWL. 

Head  piece. 

"  This  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine ,  it  tells  of  good 
old  times  " 

"  With  those  that  in  the  Mayflower  came,  —  a  hun 
dred  souls  and  more  " 


AKTIST. 

S.  A.  SCIIOKF 


frontispiece 


S.  L.  SMITH.     .     .     . 
S.  L.  SMITH. 


W.  F.  HALSALL i 

W.  F.  HALSALL    ....  7 

HELEN  M.  HIXDS  ....  2 

Louis  RITTER ^ 

S.  L.  SMITH 4 

GEORGE  R.  BARSE    .     .     .  6 

W.  F.  HALSALL   ....  7 

FREDERIC  CROWNIXSHIELD  o 


Louis  RITTER 10 

Louis  RITTER to 

Louis  RITTER 12 

Louis  RITTER /  ? 

Louis  RITTER 14 


Louis  RITTER 75 

W.  F.  HALSALL    .  16 


vi 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  When  brave  Miles  Standish  took  the  bowl,  and 
filled  it  to  the  brim"  ........ 

"  So  John  did  drink  —  and  well  be  worked  that  night 
at  Bunker's  Hill  !"  ......... 

THE   PLOUGHMAN. 

"  First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun"      .     . 
"  Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done"  .     .      . 
"  By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests"       .     . 

A    MOTHER'S    SECRET. 

"  And  Mary  culled  the  flaxen  fibres  white  ; 

Till  eve  she  spun  ;  she  spun  till  morning  light"  . 
THE   VOICELESS. 

"  We  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber"    .     . 
THE   TWO    STREAMS. 
"  Behold  the  rocky  wall 

That  down  its  sloping  sides  "     ...... 

BROTHER    JONATHAN'S     LAMENT    FOR 
SISTER    CAROLINE. 

Head  piece.     The  Pine  and  the  Palmetto  .     .     . 

"She  has  gone,  —  she   has  left  us    in   passion    and 
pride"    .........      .     .     .     . 

THE    FLOWER    OF    LIBERTY. 

Head  piece. 

"  The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty"     ...... 

THE   CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS. 

Tail  piece     ............. 

SUN   AND    SHADOW. 

Head  piece   ............. 

UNDER    THE    VIOLETS. 

Head  piece  ............. 

"  A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone"    ...... 

HYMN    OF   TRUST. 

Head  piece  ............. 

DOROTHY   Q. 

Head  piece.     Engraved  from  the  original  portrait 

Tail  piece 
THE    ORGAN-BLOWER. 

The  Organ  at  King's  Chapel,  Boston     .     .     .     . 


F.  P.  VINTON   .....  /j 

T.  DE  THULSTRUP      .     .     .  18 

].  Y.  MURPHY  .....  /n 

].  F.   MURPHY  .....  10 

FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD  21 


MRS.  F.  C.  HOUSTON     .      .  22 

FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD  26 

H.  BOLTON  JONES      ...  27 

FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD  28 

W.  F.  HALSALL     .     .     .     .  29 

W.  L.  TAYLOR  .     .     .  30 

S.  L.  SMITH      .....  32 
W.  F.  HALSALL    .     .          . 


S.  L.  SMITH      .....     34 
G.  H.  MAYNARD  ....     ^5 

FREDERIC  CROWNINSHIELD    36 


Tail 


C.  S.   MILLS      ..... 
HELEN  M.  HINDS      .     .     . 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  vii 

ARTIST.  PAGE 

A  BALLAD  OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA  PARTY. 

Head  piece C.  J.  TAYLOR 43 

The  tea  ships  at  the  wharf W.  F.  HALSALL    .     ...    44 

"  A  tribe  of  Red  men,  axe  in  hand  " GEORGE  R.  BARSE     ...     ^5 

Tail  piece S.  L.  SMITH 47 

LEXINGTON. 

Head  piece.     An  Incident HOWARD  PVLE      .     ...    48 

The  Embarkation HOWARD  PVLE      .     .     •     .     49 

"  Blaming  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall"  .     .     HOWARD  PVLE      ....     50 
GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY    OF    BUNKER 

HILL    BATTLE. 

The  British  troops  forming  their  line    .     .     .     .     W.  H.  SHELTOX    ....     57 
"  //;  the  bush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepida 
tion  " F.  C.  JONES 5J? 

"  How  they  surged  above   the   breastwork  as  a  sea 

breaks  over  a  deck" W.  H.  SHELTOX    .     ...     58 

"  How,   driven ,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our   worn-out 

men  retreated" W.  H.  SHELTOX    ....     59 

"  For  they  all  thought  he  was  dying,  as  they  gathered 

round  him  crying" HOWARD    PVLE     .     ...     60 

Tail  piece.     On  the  Ramparts  at  Daybreak    .     .     C.  S.  MILLS 61 

BILL   AND    JOE. 

"  Come,  dear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 
Will  steal  an  hour  from  day;  gone  by"       .     .     .     W.  T.  SMEDLEY   .     ...     62 

CONTENTMENT. 

"  And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 

In  yonder  street  that  fron'.s  the  sun"       ....     Ross  TURNER 65 

"  Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  /ess  would  do  no  hurt"      .     .     .     .     W.  H.  SHELTOX    .     ...     66 

Tail  piece Louis  RITTER 67 

THE    DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE. 

Head  piece.     From  an  authentic  drawing  .     .     .     W.  H.  SHELTOX   .     .     .     .     68 

"  So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  milage  folk"      .     .     W.  T.  SMEDLEY    .     .     •     .     70 

"  The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  '  Settler's  ellum'"    .     .     W.  T.   SMEDLEY   .     ...     7; 

"  Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill"    ....     W.  T.  SMEDLEY    ....     72 

DE    SAUTY. 

"  Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us"  .     W.  T.  SMEDLEY    ....     7? 
"  Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker"       W.  T.  SMEDLKY    ....     75 

THE    FIRST   FAN. 

Head  piece S.  L.  SMITH 76 

"  Poor  Venus !     What  had  she  to  sell  ?  "  .     .     .     .  MRS.   F.  C.   HOUSTON     .     .  73 

Tail  piece MRS.  F.  C.  HOUSTON    .     .  81 


viii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEARING   THE   SNOW   LINE. 

"  Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  misty  vale  "  .  .  .  W.  T.  SMEDLEY 
THE  SILENT  MELODY. 

Headpiece        S.  L.  SMITH      . 

"  And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring"       ....     I.  H.  STIEFEL 

Tailpiece S.  L.  SMITH  . 

THE  IRON  GATE. 


Head  piece 
FINIS 


W.  L.  TAYLOR 
S.  L.  SMITH 


82 

83 
84 
85 

86 
89 


The  Illustrations  were  engraved  by  Messrs.  ANDREW,  ATTWOOD,  BAKER,  CLOSSON, 
COWEE,  FRENCH,  HELD,  MARSH,  LATHAM,  SCHOELCH,  SYLVESTER,  Miss  POWELL,' 
and  others. 


AYE. 

Full  well  I  /mow  the  frozen  band  has  come 
That  smites  the  songs  of  grove  and  garden  dumb, 
And  chills  sad  autumn's  last  chrysanthemum-; 

Yet  would  I  find  one  blossom,  if  I  might, 

Ere  the  dark  loom  that  -weaves  the  robe  of  white 

Hides  all  the  wrecks  of  summer  out  of  sight. 

Sometimes  in  dim  November's  narrowing  day, 
When  all  the  season's  pride  has  passed  away, 
As  mid  the  blackened  stems  and  leaves  we  stray, 


We  spy  in  sheltered  nook  or  rocky  cleft 
A  starry  disk  the  hurrying-  winds  have  left, 
Of  all  its  blooming  sisterhood  bereft  : 

Some  pansy,  with  its  wondering  baby  eyes, — 
Poor  wayside  nursling!  — fixed  in  blank  surprise 
At  the  rough  welcome  of  unfriendly  skies ; 

Or  golden  daisy,  —  will  it  dare  disclaim 
The  lion's  tooth,  to  wear  this  gentler  name? 
Or  blood-red  salvia,  with  its  lips  aflame : 

The  storms  have  stripped  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Still  on  its  cheek  the  blush  of  summer  glows, 
And  all  its  heart-leaves  kindle  as  it  blows. 


AVE. 

So  bad  I  looked  some  bud  of  song  to  find 
The  careless  winds  of  autumn  left  bebind, 
With  these  of  earlier  seasons'  growth  to  bind. 

Al)  me!  my  skies  are  dark  with  sudden  grief, 
A  flower  lies  faded  on  my  garnered  sheaf ; 
Yet  let  the  sunshine  gild  this  virgin  leaf,  — 

The  joyous,  blessed  sunshine  of  the  past, 

Still  with  me,  though  the  heavens  are  overcast,  — 

The  light  that  shines  while  life  and  memory  last. 

Go,  pictured  rhymes,  for  loving  readers  meant ; 
Bring  bach  the  smiles  your  jocund  morning  lent, 
And  warm  their  hearts  with  sunbeams  yet  unspent! 

Beverly  Fanns,  July  24,  1884. 


OLD    IRONSIDES. 


Av,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee;  — 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 

O  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave  ; 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale  ! 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 


THE    LAST    LEAF. 

I  SAW  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  priming-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 
And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 
On  the  tomb. 


My  grandmamma  has  said  — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago  — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 


I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that 

Are  so  queer! 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 
Where  I  cling. 


THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

IN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows 

The   Pilgrim  sire  looked  out; 
He  thought  of  the  "  bloudy  Salvages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamet's  pictured  knife 

And  Pecksuot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  limbs  were  feeble, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 
Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat, 

Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 
And  bald  enough  of  that; 


THE   PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

The  hole  that  served  for  casement 
Was  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat ; 

And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 
From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow  ; 
A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him,  — 

A   dream  of  long  ago, — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 

And  murmured,  "  Even  so  !  " 

'  Come  hither,  God-be-Glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof   I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth  in  Leyden 

And  on  the  stormy  sea; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning, — 

So  may  its  ending  be ! 

"  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When  lo,  the  vision  passed. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened  ;  — 
The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 


The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 
The  remnant  was  a  throng; 

By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 
And  all  the  shores  along, 

The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 
The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"They  slept,  — the  village  fathers,— 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time 

The  vision  rose  once  more ; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column   pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

'  Their  Leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye  ; 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try  ; 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 


God  for  the  right !   I  faltered, 
And  lo,  the  train  passed  by. 

Once  more  ;  —  the  strife  is  ended, 

The  solemn  issue  tried, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm 

Has  helped  our  Israel's  side ; 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Tell  where  our  martyrs  died, 
But  peaceful  smiles  the  harvest, 

And  stainless  flows  the  tide. 


A  crash,  —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  St.  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

"Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell! 
The  mist  was  cleared, —  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell! 

"  O  trembling  faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is   thine; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray, 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine! 

"  I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on ; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers  ' ! 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  showers; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  Continent  is  ours  !  " 

He  ceased,  —  the  grim  old  soldier-saint,  — 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  pilgrim-child,  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strown  ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Alonof  the  sod  were  blown  ; 

O 

His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 
His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend,  — 

HERE  WAS  THE  PILGRIM'S  LAND  ! 


10 


MY  AVIARY. 


MY   AVIARY. 

THROUGH  my  north  window,  in  the  wintry  weather, 

My  airy  oriel  on  the  river  shore, 

I  watch  the  sea-fowl  as  they  flock  together 

Where  late  the  boatman  flashed  his  dripping  oar. 

The  gull,  high  floating,  like  a  sloop  unladen, 
Lets  the  loose  water  waft  him  as  it  will; 

The  duck,  round-breasted  as  a  rustic  maiden, 
Paddles  and  plunges,  busy,  busy  still. 

I  see  the  solemn  gulls  in  council  sitting 

On  some  broad  ice-floe,  pondering  long  and  late  " 

While  overhead  the  home-bound  ducks  are  flitting,' 
And  leave  the  tardy  conclave  in  debate, 


MY  A  VI AR  Y.  ! 

Those  weighty  questions  in  their  breasts  revolving 

Whose  deeper  meaning  science  never  learns, 
Till  at  some  reverend  elder's  look  dissolving, 

53' 

The  speechless  senate  silently  adjourns. 

But  when  along  the  waves  the  shrill  north-easter 

Shrieks  through  the  laboring  coaster's  shrouds  "  Beware !  " 

The  pale  bird,  kindling  like  a  Christmas  feaster 
When  some  wild  chorus  shakes  the  vinous  air, 

Flaps  from  the  leaden  wave  in  fierce  rejoicing, 

Feels  heaven's  dumb  lightning  thrill  his  torpid  nerves, 

Now  on  the  blast  his  whistling  plumage  poising, 
Now  wheeling,  whirling  in  fantastic  curves. 

Such  is  our  gull ;  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 

Less  fleshed  than  feathered ;  bagged  you  '11  find  him  such 
His  virtue  silence;  his  employment  pleasure; 

Not  bad  to  look  at,  and  not  good  for  much. 

What  of  our  duck?     He  has  some  high-bred  cousins, — 
His  Grace  the  Canvas-back,  My  Lord  the  Brant, — 

Anas  and  A  user,  —  both  served  up  by  dozens, 
At  Boston's  Rocker,  half-way  to  Nahant. 

As  for  himself,  he  seems  alert  and  thriving, — 
Grubs  up  a  living  somehow  —  what,  who  knows? 

Crabs?  mussels?  weeds? — Look  quick!  there's  one  just   div 
ing! 
Flop  !     Splash  !  his  white  breast  glistens  —  down  he  goes  ! 

And  while  he  's  under  —  just  about  a  minute— 

I  take  advantage  of  the  fact  to  say 
His  fishy  carcase  has  no  virtue  in  it 

The  gunning  idiot's  worthless  hire  to  pay. 


12  MY  AVIARY. 


He  knows  you !  "  sportsmen  "  from  suburban  alleys, 
Stretched  under  seaweed  in  the  treacherous  punt ; 

Knows  every  lazy,  shiftless  lout  that  sallies 

Forth  to  waste  powder  —  as  he  says,  to  "hunt." 

I  watch  you  with  a  patient  satisfaction, 

Well  pleased  to  discount  your  predestined  luck; 

The  float  that  figures  in  your  sly  transaction 
Will  carry  back  a  goose,  but  not  a  duck. 

Shrewd  is  our  bird;  not  easy  to  outwit  him! 

Sharp  is  the  outlook  of  those  pin-head  eyes ; 
Still,  he  is  mortal  and  a  shot  may  hit  him, 

One  cannot  always  miss  him  if  he  tries. 

Look!  there's  a  young  one,  dreaming  not  of  danger; 

Sees  a  flat  log  come  floating  down  the  stream; 
Stares  undismayed  upon  the  harmless  stranger; 

Ah !  were  all  strangers  harmless  as  they  seem ! 

Habet /  a  leaden  shower  his  breast  has  shattered; 

Vainly  he  flutters,  not  again  to  rise; 
His  soft  white  plumes  along  the  waves  are  scattered; 

Helpless  the  wing  that  braved  the  tempest  lies. 

He  sees  his  comrades  high  above  him  flying 
To  seek  their  nests  among  the  island  reeds; 


MY  AVIARY.  13 

Strong  is  their  flight ;  all  lonely  he  is  lying 
Washed  by  the  crimsoned  water  as  he  bleeds. 

O  Thou  who  carest  for  the  falling  sparrow, 
Canst  Thou  the  sinless  sufferer's  pang  forget? 

Or  is  Thy  dread  account-book's  page  so  narrow 
Its  one  long  column  scores  Thy  creatures'  debt? 

Poor  gentle  guest,  by  nature  kindly  cherished, 
A  world  grows  dark  with  thee  in  blinding  death ; 

One  little  gasp  —  thy  universe  has  perished, 

Wrecked  by  the  idle  thief  who  stole  thy  breath! 

Is  this  the  whole  sad  story  of  creation, 

Lived  by  its  breathing  myriads  o'er  and  o'er,  — 

One  glimpse  of  day,  then  black  annihilation,  — 
A  sunlit  passage  to  a  sunless  shore  ? 

Give  back  our  faith,  ye  mystery-solving  lynxes  ! 

Robe  us  once  more  in  heaven-aspiring  creeds  ! 
Happier  was  dreaming  Egypt  with  her  sphynxes 

The  stony  convent  with  its  cross  and  beads ! 


.„,,•'. 


14  MY  AVIARY. 

How  often  gazing  where  a  bird  reposes, 

Rocked  on  the  wavelets,  drifting  with  the  tide, 

I  lose  myself  in  strange  metempsychosis 
And  float  a  sea-fowl  at  a  sea-fowl's  side. 

From  rain,  hail,  snow  in  feathery  mantle  muffled, 
Clear-eyed,  strong-limbed,  with  keenest  sense  to  hear 

My  mate  soft  murmuring,  who,  with  plumes  unruffled, 
Where'er  I  wander  still  is  nestling  near; 

The  great  blue  hollow  like  a  garment  o'er  me; 

Space  all  unmeasured,  unrecorded  time; 
While  seen  with  inward  eye  moves  on  before  me 

Thought's  pictured  train  in  wordless  pantomime. 

—A  voice  recalls  me.  —  From  my  window  turning 

I  find  myself  a  plumeless  biped  still ; 
No  beak,  no  claws,  no  sign  of  wings  discerning, — 

In  fact  with  nothing  bird-like  but  my  quill. 


ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 


ON    LENDING   A    PUNCH-BOWL. 

THIS  ancient  silver  bowl  of  mine,  it  tells  of  good  old  times, 
Of  joyous  clays,  and  jolly  nights,  and  merry  Christmas  chimes  ; 
They  were  a  free  and  jovial  race,  but  honest,  brave,  and  true, 
That  dipped  their  ladle  in  the  punch  when  this  old  bowl  was 


A  Spanish  galleon  brought  the  bar;  so  runs  the  ancient  tale ; 
T  was    hammered  by  an  Antwerp  smith,  whose  arm  was  like 

a  flail ; 
And  now  and  then  between  the  strokes,  for  fear  his  strength 

should  fail, 
He  wiped  his  brow,  and    quaffed  a  cup  of  good  old    Flemish 

ale. 

Tvvas  purchased  by  an  English  squire  to  please  his  loving 
dame, 

Who  saw  the  cherubs,  and  conceived  a  longing  for  the  same ; 

And  oft  as  on  the  ancient  stock  another  twig  was  found, 

Twas  filled  with  caudle  spiced  and  hot,  and  handed  smok 
ing  round. 

But,  changing  hands,  it  reached  at  length  a  Puritan  divine, 

Who  used  to  follow  Timothy,  and  take  a  little  wine, 

But  hated  punch  and  prelacy;  and  so  it  was,  perhaps, 

He  went  to  Leyden,  where  he  found  conventicles  and  schnaps. 


16  ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 


And  then,  of  course,  you  know  what 's  next,  —  it  left  the  Dutch 
man's  shore 

With   those   that   in    the    Mayflower  came,  — a  hundred  souls 

and  more,  — 

Along  with  all  the  furniture,  to  fill  their  new  abodes,  — 
To  judge  by  what  is  still   on  hand,  at  least  a  hundred  loads. 

'T  was  on  a  dreary  winter's  eve,  the  night  was  closing  dim, 
When    brave    Miles    Standish    took    the    bowl,  and  filled  it  to 

the  brim  ; 

1  he  little  Captain  stood  and  stirred  the  posset  with  his  sword, 
And  all  his  sturdy  men-at-arms  were  ranged  about  the  board.' 

He    poured    the    fiery    Hollands    in,  —  the    man    that    never 

feared,  — 
He    took  a  long   and   solemn    draught,  and  wiped   his   yellow 

beard ; 

And  one  by  one  the    musketeers  —  the  men  that   fought   and 

prayed  — 
All  drank  as  'twere  their  mother's  milk,  and  not  a  man  afraid. 

That  night,  affrighted  from  his  nest,  the  screaming  eagle  flew, 
He  heard  the  Pequot's  ringing  whoop,  the  soldier's  wild  halloo; 


ON  LENDING  A   PUNCH-BOWL.  17 

And  there  the  sachem  learned  the  rule  he  taught  to  kith  and 
kin, 

"  Run  from  the  white  man  when  you  find  he  smells  of  Hol 
lands  gin  !  " 

A  hundred  years,  and  fifty  more,  had  spread  their  leaves  and 

snows, 

A  thousand  rubs  had  flattened  down  each  little  cherub's  nose, 
When  once  again  the  bowl  was  filled,  but  not  in  mirth  or  joy, 
'T  was  mingled  by  a  mother's  hand  to  cheer  her  parting  boy. 

Drink,  John,  she  said, 't  will  clo  you  good,  —  poor  child,  you '11 

never  bear 

This  working  in  the  dismal   trench,  out  in  the  midnight  air ; 
And  if  —  God  bless  me  !  —  you  were  hurt,  't  would  keep  away 

the  chill; 
So    John    did   drink,  —  and    well   he    wrought    that    night    at 

Bunkers   Hill! 

I   tell    you,  there   was    generous  warmth  in  good    old    English 

cheer ; 
I  tell  you  't  was  a  pleasant  thought  to  bring  its  symbol  here ; 


1 8  ON  LENDING  A  PUNCH-BOWL. 

T  is    but   the   fool    that   loves    excess ;    hast    thou   a  drunken 

soul  ? 
Thy  bane  is  in  thy  shallow  skull,  not  in  my  silver  bowl ! 

I  love  the  memory  of  the  past,  —  its  pressed  yet  fragrant 
flowers,  — 

The  moss  that  clothes  its  broken  walls,  —  the  ivy  on  its  tow 
ers  ;  — 

Nay,  this  poor  bauble  it  bequeathed,  —  my  eyes  grow  moist 
and  dim, 

To  think  of  all  the  vanished  joys  that  danced  around  its  brim. 

Then  fill  a  fair  and  honest  cup,  and  bear  it  straight  to  me  ; 
The  goblet  hallows  all  it  holds,  whate'er  the  liquid  be; 
And  may  the  cherubs  on  its  face  protect  me  from  the  sin, 
That  dooms  one  to  those  dreadful  words,  —  "  My  dear,  where 
have  you  been  ?  " 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 


THE    PLOUGHMAN. 


ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    BERKSHIRE    AGRICULTURAL    SOCIETY, 
OCTOBER    4,  1849. 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam ! 
Lo  !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sun-burnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun, 
Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 
Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod; 
Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 


20  THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves; 
Up  the  steep  hillside,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain  ; 
Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay, 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round, 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings ; 
This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green  ; 
This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men  ; 
These  are  the  lines  which  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time! 
We  stain  thy  flowers,  —  they  blossom  o'er  the  dead ; 
Wre  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread  ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn; 
Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 
Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength  away. 


THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

No  !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  displayed 
In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed  ; 
By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagles'  nests  ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain   circle  screens, 
And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines, — 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 
If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 
These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 
Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run, 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won! 


22 


A  MOTHER'S  SECRET. 


A    MOTHER'S   SECRET. 

How  sweet  the  sacred  legend  — if  unblamed 
In  my  slight  verse  such  holy  things  are  named  — 
Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 
Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous  boy! 
Ave,  Maria !     Pardon,  if  I  wrong 
Those  heavenly  words  that  shame  my  earthly  song ! 

The  choral  host  had  closed  the  Angel's  strain 
Sung  to  the  listening  watch  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  now  the  shepherds,  hastening  on  their  way, 
Sought  the  still  hamlet  where  the  Infant  lay. 
They  passed  the  fields  that  gleaning  Ruth  toiled  o'er, 
They  saw  afar  the  ruined  threshing-floor 
Where  Moab's  daughter,  homeless  and  forlorn, 
Found  Boaz  slumbering  by  his  heaps  of  corn ; 
And  some  remembered  how  the  holy  scribe, 
Skilled  in  the  lore  of  every  jealous  tribe, 
Traced  the  warm  blood  of  Jesse's  royal  son 


A  MOTHER'S  SECRET.  23 

To  that  fair  alien,  bravely  wooed  and  won. 

So  fared  they  on  to  seek  the  promised  sign, 

That  marked  the  anointed  "heir  of  David's  line. 
At  last,  by  forms  of  earthly  semblance  led, 

They  found  the  crowded  inn,  the  oxen's  shed. 

No  pomp  was  there,  no  glory  shone  around 

On  the  coarse  straw  that  strewed  the  reeking  ground  ; 

One  dim  retreat  a  flickering  torch  betrayed,  - 

In  that  poor  cell  the  Lord  of  Life  was  laid! 

The  wondering  shepherds  told  their  breathless  tale 

Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleeping  vale  ; 

Told  how  the  skies  with  sudden  glory  flamed, 

Told  how  the  shining  multitude  proclaimed, 
"  Joy,  joy  to  earth  !     Behold  the  hallowed  morn  ! 

In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  is  born  ! 
'  Glory  to  God  ! '  let  angels  shout  on  high, 
'Good-will  to  men!'  the  listening  earth  reply!" 

They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and   accents  wild  ; 

Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly  child. 

No  trembling  word  the  mother's  joy  revealed,  — 

One  sigh  of  rapture,  and  her  lips  were  sealed; 

Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 

But  kept  their  words  to  ponder  in  her  heart. 

Twelve  years  had  passed;  the  boy  was  fair  and  tall, 
Growing  in  wisdom,  finding  grace   with  all. 
The  maids  of  Nazareth,  as  they  trooped  to  fill 
Their  balanced  urns  beside  the  mountain  rill, 
The  gathered  matrons,  as  they  sat  and  spun, 
Spoke  in  soft  words  of  Joseph's  quiet  son. 
No  voice  had  reached  the  Galilean  vale 
Of  star-led  kings,  or  awe-struck  shepherd's  tale  ; 
In  the  meek,  studious  child  they  only  saw 
The  future   Rabbi,  learned  in  Israel's  law. 

So  grew  the  boy,  and  now  the  feast  was  near 


24  A  MOTHER'S  SECRET. 

When  at  the  Holy  Place  the  tribes  appear. 
Scarce  had  the  home-bred  child  of  Nazareth  seen 
Beyond  the  hills  that  girt  the  village  green; 
Save  when  at  midnight,  o'er  the  starlit  sands, 
Snatched  from  the  steel  of  Herod's  murdering  bands, 
A  babe,  close  folded  to  his  mother's  breast, 
Through  Edom's  wilds  he  sought  the  sheltering  West. 
Then  Joseph  spake :  "  Thy  boy  hath  largely  grown ; 
Weave  him  fine  raiment,  fitting  to  be  shown; 
Fair  robes  beseem  the  pilgrim,  as  the  priest: 
Goes  he  not  with  us  to  the  holy  feast  ?  " 

And  Mary  culled  the  flaxen  fibres  white; 
Till  eve  she  spun;  she  spun  till  morning  light. 
The  thread  was  twined;  its  parting  meshes  through 
From  hand  to  hand  her  restless  shuttle  flew, 
Till  the  full  web  was  wound  upon  the  beam; 
Love's  curious  toil,  —  a  vest  without  a  seam! 
They  reach  the  Holy  Place,  fulfil  the  days 
To  solemn  feasting  given,  and  grateful  praise. 
At  last  they  turn,  and  far  Moriah's  height 
Melts  in  the  southern  sky  and  fades  from  sight. 
All  day  the  dusky  caravan  has  flowed 
In  devious  trails  along  the  winding  road; 
(For  many  a  step  their  homeward  path  attends, 
And  all  the  sons  of  Abraham  are  as  friends.) 
Evening  has  come,  —  the  hour  of  rest  and  joy,— 
Hush!      Hush!     That  whisper,  —  "  Where  is  Mary's  boy? 

O  weary  hour !     O  aching  days  that  passed 
Filled  with  strange  fears  each  wilder  than  the  last,  — 
The  soldier's  lance,  the  fierce  centurion's  sword, 
The  crushing  wheels  that  whirl  some  Roman  lord, 
The  midnight  crypt  that  sucks  the  captive's  breath, 
The  blistering  sun  on  Hinnom's  vale  of  death ! 

Thrice  on  his  cheek  had  rained  the  morning  light; 
Thrice  on  his  lips  the  mildewed  kiss  of  night, 


A   MOTHER'S  SECRET.  25 

Crouched  by  a  sheltering  column's  shining  plinth, 
Or  stretched  beneath  the  odorous  terebinth. 

At  last,  in  desperate  mood,  they  sought  once  more 
The  Temple's  porches,  searched  in  vain  before  ; 
They  found  him  seated  with  the  ancient  men,  - 
The  grim  old  rufflers  of  the  tongue  and  pen,— 
Their  bald  heads  glistening  as  they  clustered  near, 
Their  gray  beards  slanting  as  they  turned  to  hear, 
Lost  in  half-envious  wonder  and  surprise 
That  lips  so  fresh  should  utter  words  so  wise. 

And  Mary  said,  —  as  one  who,  tried  too  long, 
Tells  all  her  grief  and  half  her  sense  of  wrong,  - 
"  What  is  this  thoughtless  thing  which  thou  hast  done  ? 
Lo,  we  have  sought  thee  sorrowing,  O  my  son!" 

Few  words  he  spake,  and  scarce  of  filial  tone, 
Strange  words,  their  sense  a  mystery  yet  unknown ; 
Then  turned  with  them  and  left  the  holy  hill, 
To  all  their  mild  commands  obedient  still. 

The  tale  was  told  to  Nazareth's  sober  men, 
And  Nazareth's  matrons  told  it  oft  again; 
The  maids  retold  it  at  the  fountain's  side, 
The  youthful  shepherds  doubted  or  denied  ; 
It  passed  around  among  the  listening  friends, 
With  all  that  fancy  adds  and  fiction  lends, 
Till  newer  marvels  dimmed  the  young  renown 
Of  Joseph's  son,  who  talked  the  Rabbis  down. 

But  Mary,  faithful  to  its  lightest  word, 
Kept  in  her  heart  the  sayings  she  had  heard, 
Till  the  dread  morning  rent  the  Temple's  veil, 
And  shuddering  earth  confirmed  the  wondrous  tale. 

Youth  fades ;  love  droops  ;  the  leaves  of  friendship  fall : 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 


THE  VOICELESS. 

WE  count   the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them:  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story, 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory! 
Not  where   Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses, 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
WThat  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven! 


THE   TWO   STREAMS. 


BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 
Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending, 

as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 


Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the 

sun 

Through  the  cleft  mountain- 
ledge. 


The  slender  rill  had  strayed. 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent   bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea! 


28  BROTHER    JONATHAN'S  LAMENT. 


BROTHER    JONATHAN'S     LAMENT    FOR    SISTER 
CAROLINE, 

SHE  has  gone,  —  she  has  left  us  in  passion  and  pride,  — 
Our  stormy-browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side  ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's  glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
We  can  never  forget   that  our  hearts  have  been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch  ; 
But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not  mean  much." 
We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent  threat ; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "  Forgive  and  forget !  " 

Has  our  love  all  died  out?     Have  its  altars  grown  cold? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till   the  buzzards  are  gorged  with   their  spoil, 
Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and   the  catamounts  troop  from  their  caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the  waves: 


BROTHER    JONATHAN'S  LAMENT.  29 

In  vain  is  the  strife  !     When  its  fury  is  past, 

Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 

As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 

Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky: 
Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God   cuts  the  die  ! 
Though  darkened  with  sulphur,  though  cloven  with  steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never  be  won  ! 
The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister !  afar  and  aloof, 
Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof ; 
But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have  grown  sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door! 
March  25,  1861. 


30  THE  FLOWER    OF  LIBERTY, 


THE    FLOWER   OF   LIBERTY. 

WHAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 

Its  hues  from  Heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 

With  burning  star  and  flaming  band 

It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land : 

O  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be,  — 

Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 

It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

In  savage   Nature's  far  abode 

Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed; 

The  storm-winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 

Its  opening  leaves  were  streaked  with  blood, 

Till  lo!  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 

The  full-blown   Flower  of  Liberty ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry   Flower  of  Liberty ! 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite, 

One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light,  — 

The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 

With  spotless  white  from   Northern  snows, 

And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 

The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty! 


THE    CHAMBERED   NAUTILUS.  31 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round, 
Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground  ; 
From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread  ; 
It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread  ; 
It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 
And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of   Liberty ! 

Thy  sacred  leaves,  fair   Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower, 
To   all   their  heavenly   colors   true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew, — 
And  God  love   us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY  ! 


THE   CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS. 

THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 

Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 


32  THE   CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS. 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 

He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings  :  - 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,   O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 


SUJV  AND   SHADOW. 


33 


SUN    AND   SHADOW. 

As   I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue  : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on   her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on   her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun. — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar  ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from   the  shore  ! 
He  looks  to  the   beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that   is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in   sunshine  or  shade ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  the  shadows  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore  ! 


34  UNDER   THE    VIOLETS, 


UNDER    THE    VIOLETS. 

HER  hands  are  cold;  her  face  is  white; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go  ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 


UNDER    THE    VIOLETS. 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise! 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


35 


HYMN    OF   TRUST. 

O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
We  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near! 

Though  long  the  wTeary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our  hearts  still  whispering,  Thou  art  near! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,   Thou  art  near! 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 

O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 
Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 

Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near! 


DOROTHY  Q.  37 


DOROTHY   Q. 

A    FAMILY    PORTRAIT. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  mother  :  her  age,   I  guess, 
Thirteen  summers,  or  something  less  ; 
Girlish  bust,  but  womanly  air ; 
Smooth,  square  forehead  with  uprollcd  hair, 
Lips  that  lover  has  never  kissed; 
Taper  fingers  and  slender  wrist ; 
Hanging  sleeves  of  stiff  brocade ; 
So  they  painted  the  little  maid. 

On  her  hand  a  parrot  green 

Sits  unmoving  and  broods  serene. 

Hold  up  the  canvas  full  in  view,  — 

Look!  there's  a  rent  the  light  shines  through, 

Dark  with  a  century's  fringe  of  dust,  — 

That  was  a  Red-Coat's  rapier-thrust ! 


38  DOROTHY  Q. 

Such  is  the  tale  the  lady  old, 
Dorothy's  daughter's  daughter,  told. 

Who  the  painter  was  none  may  tell, — 
One  whose  best  was  not  over  well ; 
Hard  and  dry,  it  must  be  confessed, 
Flat  as  a  rose  that  has  long  been  pressed ; 
Yet  in  her  cheek  the  hues  are  bright 

O 

Dainty  colors  of  red  and  white, 
And  in  her  slender  shape  are  seen 
Hint  and  promise  of  stately  mien. 

Look  not  on  her  with  eyes  of  scorn,  — 
Dorothy  Q.  was  a  lady  born! 
Ay!  since  the  galloping  Normans  came, 
England's  annals  have  known  her  name ; 
And  still  to  the  three-hilled  rebel  town 
Dear  is  that  ancient  name's  renown, 
For  many  a  civic  wreath  they  won, 
The  youthful  sire  and  the  gray-haired  son. 

O  Damsel   Dorothy!  Dorothy  Q. ! 
Strange  is  the  gift  that  I  owe  to  you; 
Such  a  gift  as  never  a  king 
Save  to  daughter  or  son  might  bring,  — 
All  my  tenure  of  heart  and  hand, 
All  my  title  to  house  and  land ; 
Mother  and  sister  and  child  and  wife 
And  joy  and  sorrow  and  death  and  life! 

What  if  a  hundred  years  ago 

Those  close-shut  lips  had  answered  No, 

When  forth  the  tremulous  question  came 

That  cost  the  maiden  her  Norman  name, 

And  under  the  folds  that  look  so  still 

The  bodice  swelled  with  the  bosom's  thrill? 


DOROTHY  Q.  39 

Should   I  be   I,  or  would  it  be 

One  tenth  another,  to  nine  tenths  me? 

Soft  is  the  breath  of  a  maiden's   YES  : 

Not  the  light  gossamer  stirs  with  less; 

But  never  a  cable  that  holds  so  fast 

Through  all  the  battles  of  wave  and  blast, 

And  never  an  echo  of  speech  or  song 

That  lives  in  the  babbling  air  so  long! 

There  were  tones  in  the  voice  that  whispered  then 

You  may  hear  to-day  in  a  hundred  men. 

0  lady  and  lover,   how  faint  and  far 
Your  images  hover,  —  and  here  we  are, 
Solid  and  stirring  in  flesh  and  bone,— 
Edward's  and  Dorothy's  —  all  their  own,  — 
A  goodly  record  for  Time  to  show 

Of  a  syllable  spoken  so  long  ago!  — 
Shall  I  bless  you,   Dorothy,  or  forgive 
For  the  tender  whisper  that  bade  me  live? 

It  shall  be  a  blessing,  my  little  maid! 

1  will  heal  the  stab  of  the   Red-Coat's  blade, 
And  freshen  the  gold  of  the  tarnished  frame, 
And  gild  with  a  rhyme  your  household  name ; 
So  you  shall  smile  on  us  brave  and  bright 
As  first  you  greeted  the  morning's  light, 
And  live  untroubled  by  woes  and  fears 
Through  a  second  youth  of  a  hundred  years. 
1871. 


THE    ORGAN-BLOWER. 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER. 

DEVOUTEST  of  my  Sunday  friends, 

The  patient  Organ-blower  bends ; 

I  see  his  figure  sink  and  rise, 

(Forgive  me,   Heaven,  my  wandering  eyes!) 

A  moment  lost,  the  next  half  seen, 

His  head  above  the  scanty  screen, 

Still  measuring  out  his  deep  salaams 

Through  quavering  hymns  and  panting  psalms. 

No  priest  that  prays  in  gilded  stole, 
To  save  a  rich  man's  mortgaged  soul  ; 
No  sister,  fresh  from  holy  vows, 
So  humbly  stoops,  so  meekly  bows  ; 
His  large  obeisance  puts  to  shame 
The  proudest  genuflecting  dame, 


THE   ORGAN-BLOWER.  4! 

Whose  Easter  bonnet  low  descends 
With  all  the  grace  devotion  lends. 

O  brother  with  the  supple  spine, 
How  much  we  owe  those  bows  of  thine  ! 
Without  thine  arm  to  lend  the  breeze, 
How  vain  the  finger  on  the  keys! 
Though  all  unmatched  the  player's  skill, 
Those  thousand  throats  were  dumb  and  still: 
Another's  art  may  shape  the  tone, 
The  breath  that  fills  it  is  thine  own. 

Six  days  the  silent  Memnon  waits 
Behind  his  temple's  folded  gates ; 
But  when  the  seventh  day's  sunshine  falls 
Through  rainbowed  windows  on  the  walls, 

O 

He  breathes,  he  sings,  he  shouts,  he  fills 
The  quivering  air  with  rapturous  thrills; 
The  roof  resounds,  the  pillars  shake, 
And  all  the  slumbering  echoes  wake ! 

The   Preacher  from  the   Bible-text 
\Vith  weary  words  my  soul  has  vexed 
(Some  stranger,  fumbling  far  astray 
To  find  the  lesson  for  the  day) ; 
He  tells  us  truths  too  plainly  true, 
And  reads  the  service  all  askew, — 
Why,  why  the  —  mischief  —  can't  he  look 
Beforehand  in  the  service-book? 

But  thou,  with  decent  mien  and  face, 
Art  always  ready  in  thy  place; 
Thy  strenuous  blast,  whate'er  the  tune, 
As  steady  as  the  strong  monsoon ; 


42  THE   ORGAN-BLOWER. 

Thy  only  dread  a  leathery  creak, 
Or  small  residual  extra  squeak, 
To  send  along  the  shadowy  aisles 
A  sunlit  wave  of  dimpled  smiles. 

Not  all  the  preaching,  O  my  friend, 
Comes  from  the  church's  pulpit  end! 
Not  all  that  bend  the  knee  and  bow 
Yield  service  half  so  true  as  thou! 
One  simple  task  performed  aright, 
With  slender  skill,  but  all  thy  might, 
Where  honest  labor  does  its  best, 
And  leaves  the  player  all  the  rest. 

This  many-diapasoned  maze, 
Through  which  the  breath  of  being  strays, 
Whose  music  makes  our  earth  divine, 
Has  work  for  mortal  hands  like  mine. 
My  duty  lies  before  me.     Lo, 
The  lever  there!     Take  hold  and  blow! 
And  He  whose  hand  is  on  the  keys 
Will  play  the  tune  as  He  shall  please. 
1872. 


A   BALLAD    OF  THE   BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 


A    BALLAD   OF   THE    BOSTON    TEA-PARTY. 

No  !  never  such  a  draught  was  poured 

Since  Hebe  served  with  nectar 
The  bright  Olympians  and  their  Lord, 

Her  over- kind  protector, — 
Since  Father  Noah  squeezed  the  grape 

And  took  to  such  behaving 
As  would  have  shamed  our  grandsire  ape 

Before  the  days  of  shaving,  — 
No !  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a  draught 

In  palace,  hall,  or  arbor, 
As  freemen  brewed  and  tyrants  quaffed 

That  night  in   Boston   Harbor! 
It  kept  King  George  so  long  awake 

His  brain  at  last  got  addled, 
It  made  the  nerves  of  Britain  shake, 

With  sevenscore  millions  saddled ; 
Before  that  bitter  cup  was  drained, 

Amid  the  roar  of  cannon, 
The  Western  war-cloud's  crimson  stained 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon  ; 
Full  many  a  six-foot  grenadier 

The  flattened  grass  had  measured, 


44  A  BALLAD    OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

And  many  a  mother  many  a  year 
Her  tearful  memories  treasured; 

Fast  spread  the  tempests  darkening  pall, 
The  mighty  realms  were  troubled, 

The  storm  broke  loose,  but  first  of  all 
The  Boston  teapot  bubbled  ! 

An  evening  party,  —  only  that, 

No  formal  invitation, 
No  gold-laced  coat,  no  stiff  cravat, 

No  feast  in  contemplation, 
No  silk-robed  dames,  no  fiddling  band, 

No  flowers,  no  songs,   no  dancing,  — 
A  tribe  of  Red  men,  axe  in  hand, — 

Behold  the  guests  advancing ! 
How  fast  the  stragglers  join  the  throng, 

From  stall  and  workshop  gathered  ! 
The  lively  barber  skips  along 

And  leaves  a  chin  half-lathered; 


A  JiALLAD   OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 


45 


The  smith  has  flung  his  hammer  down,— 

The  horseshoe  still  is  glowing; 
The  truant  tapster  at  the  Crown 

Has  left  a  beer-cask  flowing; 
The  cooper's  boys  have  dropped  the  adze, 

And  trot  behind  their  master; 
Up  run  the  tarry  ship-yard  lads, — 

The  crowd  is  hurrying  faster,  - 
Out  from  the  Millpond's  purlieus  gush 

The  streams  of  white-faced  millers, 
And  down  their  slippery  alleys  rush 

The  lusty  young  Fort-Hillers ; 
The  ropewalk  lends  its  'prentice  crew,  — 

The  tories  seize  the  omen: 
"  Ay,  boys,  you  '11  soon  have  work  to  do 

For  England's  rebel  foemen, 
'  King  Hancock,'  Adams,  and  their  gang, 

That  fire  the  mob  with  treason,— 
When  these  we  shoot  and  those  we  hang 
The  town  will  come  to  reason." 


46  A  BALLAD   OF  THE  BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

On  —  on  to  where  the  tea-ships  ride ! 

And  now  their  ranks  are  forming, — 
A  rush,  and  up  the  Dartmouth's  side 

The  Mohawk  band  is  swarming! 
See  the  fierce  natives  !     What  a  glimpse 

Of  paint  and  fur  and  feather, 
As  all  at  once  the  full-grown  imps 

Light  on  the  deck  together! 
A  scarf  the  pigtail's  secret  keeps, 

A  blanket  hides  the   breeches, — 
And  out  the  cursed  cargo  leaps, 

And  overboard  it  pitches ! 

O  woman,  at  the  evening  board 

O 

So  gracious,  sweet,  and  purring, 
So  happy  while  the  tea  is  poured, 

So  blest  while  spoons  are  stirring, 
What  martyr  can  compare  with  thee, 

The  mother,  wife,  or  daughter, 
That  night,  instead  of  best  Bohea, 

Condemned  to  milk  and  water! 

Ah,  little  dreams  the  quiet  dame 

Who  plies  with  rock  and  spindle 
The  patient  flax,  how  great  a  flame 

Yon  little  spark  shall  kindle! 
The  lurid  morning  shall  reveal 

A  fire  no  king  can  smother 
Where  British  flint  and  Boston  steel 

Have  clashed  against  each  other! 
Old  charters  shrivel  in  its  track, 

His  Worship's  bench  has  crumbled, 
It  climbs  and  clasps  the  union-jack, 

Its  blazoned  pomp  is  humbled, 


A   BALLAD    OF  THE   BOSTON  TEA-PARTY. 

The  flags  go  down  on  land  and  sea 

Like  corn  before  the  reapers ; 
So  burned  the  fire  that  brewed  the  tea 

That  Boston  served  her  keepers ! 

The  waves  that  wrought  a  century's  wreck 

Have  rolled  o'er  whig  and  tory; 
The  Mohawks  on  the   Dartmouth's  deck 

Still  live  in  song  and  story ; 
The  waters  in  the  rebel  bay 

Have  kept  the  tea-leaf  savor ; 
Our  old  North-Enders  in  their  spray 

Still  taste  a  Hyson  flavor ; 
And  Freedom's  teacup  still  o'erflows 

With  ever  fresh  libations, 
To  cheat  of  slumber  all  her  foes 

And  cheer  the  wakening  nations ! 

1874. 


47 


SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 

Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

On  the  smooth  green  where  the  fresh  leaf  is  springing 

Calmly  the  first-born  of  glory  have  met; 
Hark !  the  death-volley  around  them  is  ringing ! 
Look  !  with  their  life-blood  the  young  grass  is  wet ! 
Faint  is  the  feeble  breath, 
Murmuring  low  in  death, 

"  Tell  to  our  sons  how  their  fathers  have  died ;  " 
Nerveless  the  iron  hand, 
Raised  for  its  native  land, 
Lies  by  the  weapon  that  gleams  at  its  side. 


LEXINGTON.  49 

Over  the  hill-sides  the  wild  knell  is  tolling, 

From  their  far  hamlets  the  yeomanry  come; 
As  through  the  storm-clouds  the  thunder-burst  rolling, 
Circles  the  beat  of  the  mustering  drum. 

Fast  on  the  soldier's  path 

Darken  the  waves  of  wrath, 
Long  have  they  gathered  and  loud  shall  they  fall ; 

Red  glares  the  musket's  flash, 

Sharp  rings  the  rifle's  crash, 
Blazing  and  clanging  from  thicket  and  wall. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 

Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein ; 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high; 

Many  a  belted  breast 

Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 


o  LEXINGTON. 

Snow-girdled  crags  where  the  hoarse  wind  is  raving, 

Rocks  where  the  weary  floods  murmur  and  wail, 
Wilds  where  the  fern  by  the  furrow  is  waving, 
Reeled  with  the  echoes  that  rode  on  the  gale; 

Far  as  the  tempest  thrills 

Over  the  darkened  hills, 
Far  as  the  sunshine  streams  over  the  plain, 

Roused  by  the  tyrant  band, 

Woke  all  the  mighty  land, 
Girded  for  battle,  from  mountain  to  main. 

Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying! 

Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest,  — 
W'hile  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 

Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 
Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 
Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 
Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 
Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won! 


GRAND  MO  THER  'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  BA  TTLE.      5 1 


GRANDMOTHER'S    STORY   OF    BUNKER-HILL 
BATTLE. 


AS    SHE    SAW    IT    FROM    THE    BELFRY. 

'T  is  like  stirring  living  embers  when,  at  eighty,  one  remem 
bers 

All  the  achings  and  the  quakings  of  "  the  times  that  tried 
men's  souls ;  " 

When  I  talk  of  Whig  and    Tory,  when   I  tell  the  Rebel  story, 

To  you  the  words  are  ashes,  but  to  me  they  're  burning  coals. 

I  heard  the  muskets'  rattle  of  the  April  running  battle; 

Lord  Percy's  hunted  soldiers,  I  can  see  their  red  coats  still ; 

But  a  deadly  chill  comes  o'er  me,  as  the  day  looms  up  be 
fore  me, 

When  a  thousand  men  lay  bleeding  on  the  slopes  of  Bunker's 
Hill. 

Twas    a    peaceful    summer's    morning,    when    the    first    thing 

gave  us  warning 
Was  the  booming  of  the  cannon  from  the  river  and  the  shore : 


5  2       GRANDMOTHER  'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  BA TTLE. 

"  Child,"  says  grandma,  "  what 's    the    matter,  what    is    all   this 

noise  and  clatter? 
Have    those    scalping    Indian    devils   come  to  murder  us  once 

more?" 

Poor  old  soul !  my  sides  were  shaking  in  the  midst  of  all  my 

quaking, 

To  hear  her  talk  of  Indians  when  the  guns  began  to  roar: 
She  had  seen  the  burning  village,  and  the  slaughter  and   the 

pillage, 
When    the     Mohawks    killed    her    father    with    their    bullets 

through  his  door. 

Then    I    said,    "  Now,    dear    old    granny,    don't    you    fret   and 

worry  any, 
For    I  '11    soon  come  back  and    tell    you  whether  this  is  work 

or  play; 

There  can't  be  mischief  in  it,  so  I  won't  be  gone  a  minute  " — 
For  a  minute  then   I  started.     I  was  gone  the  livelong  day. 

No  time  for  bodice-lacing  or  for  looking-glass  grimacing; 
Down    my  hair  went   as    I    hurried,  tumbling    half-way  to  my 

heels  ; 
God  forbid    your    ever   knowing,  when    there 's    blood   around 

her  flowing, 
How  the  lonely,  helpless  daughter  of  a  quiet  household  feels! 

In  the  street  I  heard  a  thumping;  and  I  knew  it  was  the 
stumping 

Of  the  Corporal,  our  old  neighbor,  on  that  wooden  leg  he 
wore, 

With  a  knot  of  women  round  him,  —  it  was  lucky  I  had 
found  him, 

So  I  followed  with  the  others,  and  the  Corporal  marched  be 
fore. 


They  were  making  for  the  steeple, 
—  the  old  soldier  and  his  people; 
The   pigeons    circled    round    us    as    we    climbed    the   creaking 

stair ; 
Just    across    the    narrow    river  —  Oh,    so    close    it    made    me 

shiver! — 
Stood  a  fortress  on  the  hill-top  that  but    yesterday  was  bare. 

Not  slow  our  eyes  to  find  it ;  well  we  knew  who  stood  be 
hind  it, 

Though  the  earthwork  hid  them  from  us,  and  the  stubborn 
walls  were  dumb: 

Here  were  sister,  wife,  and  mother,  looking  wild  upon  each 
other, 

And  their  lips  were  white  with  terror  as  they  said,  THE  HOUR 
HAS  COME! 


The  morning  slowly  wasted,  not  a  morsel  had  we  tasted, 
And  our  heads  were  almost    splitting  with  the  cannons'  deaf 
ening  thrill, 


54     GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL   BATTLE. 

When  a  figure  tall  and    stately  round    the  rampart  strode  se= 

dately ; 
It  was   PRESCOTT,  one   since   told   me ;    he  commanded  on  the 

hill. 

Every  woman's    heart   grew  bigger  when    we    saw   his    manly 

figure, 
With    the    banyan    buckled    round    it,  standing  up  so  straight 

and  tall ; 

Like  a  gentleman  of  leisure  who  is  strolling  out  for  pleasure, 
Through    the   storm    of    shells    and    cannon-shot    he    walked 

around  the  wall. 

At  eleven  the  streets  were  swarming,  for  the  red-coats'   ranks 

were  forming; 

At  noon  in  marching  order  they  were  moving  to  the  piers; 
How  the    bayonets    gleamed   and    glistened,  as  we    looked  far 

down,  and  listened 
To  the  trampling  and  the  drum-beat  of  the  belted  grenadiers ! 

At  length  the  men  have  started,  with  a  cheer  (it  seemed  faint 
hearted), 

In  their  scarlet  regimentals,  with  their  knapsacks  on  their 
backs, 

And  the  reddening,  rippling  water,  as  after  a  sea-fight's  slaugh 
ter, 

Round  the  barges  gliding  onward  blushed  like  blood  along 
their  tracks. 

So  they  crossed  to  the  other  border,  and  again  they  formed  in 
order; 

And  the  boats  came  back  for  soldiers,  came  for  soldiers,  sol 
diers  still : 

The  time  seemed  everlasting  to  us  women  faint  and  fasting,— 

At  last  they  're  moving,  marching,  marching  proudly  up  the 
hill. 


GRANDMOTHER 'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  J1A TTLE.      5  5 

We  can  see  the  bright  steel  glancing  all  along  the  lines  ad 
vancing — 

Now  the  front  rank  fires  a  volley — they  have  thrown  away 
their  shot ; 

For  behind  their  earthwork  lying,  all  the  balls  above  them 
flying, 

Our  people  need  not  hurry ;  so  they  wait  and  answer  not. 

Then  the  Corporal,  our  old  cripple  (he  would  swear  some 
times  and  tipple),  — 

He  had  heard  the  bullets  whistle  (in  the  old  French  war) 
before,  — 

Calls  out  in  words  of  jeering,  just  as  if  they  all  were  hear 
ing.  — 

And   his    wooden    leg    thumps    fiercely    on    the    dusty   belfry 

floor : — 

"  Oh !  fire  away,  ye  villains,  and  earn   King  George's   shillin's, 

But  ye  '11  waste  a  ton  of  powder  afore  a  '  rebel '  falls ; 

You    may   bang   the    dirt    and    welcome,    they  're    as    safe    as 

Dan'l   Malcolm 
Ten    foot    beneath  the  gravestone  that  you  Ve  splintered  with 

your  balls ! " 

In  the  hush  of  expectation,  in  the  awe  and  trepidation 

Of  the  dread  approaching  moment,  we  are  wcllnigh  breath 
less  all ; 

Though  the  rotten  bars  are  failing  on  the  rickety  belfry  rail 
ing, 

We  are  crowding  up  against  them  like  the  waves  against  a  wall. 

Just  a  glimpse    (the    air    is    clearer),  they  are    nearer, —  nearer, 

—  nearer, 
When  a  flash  —  a  curling  smoke-wreath  —  then  a  crash  —  the 

steeple  shakes  — 


56      GRANDMOTHER 'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  BATTLE. 

The  deadly  truce  is  ended ;  the  tempest's  shroud  is  rended ; 
Like  a  morning  mist  it  gathered,  like  a  thunder-cloud  it  breaks ! 

Oh  the  sight  our  eyes  discover  as  the  blue-black  smoke  blows 

over! 

The  red-coats  stretched  in  windrows  as  a  mower  rakes  his  hay ; 
Here  a  scarlet  heap  is  lying,  there  a  headlong  crowd  is  flying 
Like  a  billow  that  has  broken  and  is  shivered  into  spray. 

Then  we  cried,  "The  troops  are  routed!  they  are  beat  —  it 
can't  be  doubted  ! 

God  be  thanked,  the  fight  is  over ! "  —  Ah !  the  grim  old  sol 
dier's  smile! 

"Tell  us,  tell  us  why  you  look  so?"  (we  could  hardly  speak, 
we  shook  so), — 

"  Are  they  beaten  ?  Are  they  beaten  ?  ARE  they  beaten  ?  " 
— "  Wait  a  while." 

Oh  the   trembling   and    the    terror !  for  too  soon  we   saw  our 

error : 
They  are  baffled,  not  defeated ;  we  have  driven  them  back  in 

vain; 
And  the  columns    that  were  scattered,  round    the  colors    that 

were  tattered, 
Toward    the    sullen    silent   fortress    turn    their   belted    breasts 

again. 

All  at  once,  as  we  were  gazing,  lo  the  roofs  of  Charlestown 
blazing ! 

They  have  fired  the  harmless  village;  in  an  hour  it  will  be 
clown  ! 

The  Lord  in  heaven  confound  them,  rain  his  fire  and  brim 
stone  round  them,  — 

The  robbing,  murdering  red-coats,  that  would  burn  a  peace 
ful  town ! 


GRANDMOTHER 'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  BA TTLE.      5 7 

They  arc  marching,  stern  and  solemn  ;  we  can  see  each  mas 
sive  column 

As  they  near  the  naked  earth-mound  with  the  slanting  walls 
so  steep. 

Have  our  soldiers  got  faint-hearted,  and  in  noiseless  haste  de 
parted  ? 

Are  they  panic-struck  and  helpless?  Are  they  palsied  or 
asleep  ? 

Now !    the  walls  they  're  almost  under !    scarce  a  rod  the  foes 

asunder ! 
Not  a  firelock   flashed    against    them!    up  the  earthwork   they 

will  swarm ! 
But   the  words    have    scarce   been    spoken,  when  the  ominous 

calm  is  broken, 
And  a  bellowing  crash    has  emptied  all  the  vengeance  of  the 

storm ! 

So  again,  with   murderous    slaughter,  pelted  backwards  to  the 

water, 
Fly    Pigot's    running    heroes    and    the   frightened    braves    of 

Howe ; 
And  we  shout,    "  At    last    they  're    done    for,  it 's   their  barges 

they  have  run  for  : 
They  are  beaten,  beaten,  beaten ;  and  the  battle  's  over  now  ! " 

And  we  looked,  poor  timid  creatures,  on  the  rough  old  sol 
dier's  features, 

Our  lips  afraid  to  question,  but  he  knew  what  we  would 
ask: 

"  Not  sure,"  he  said  ;  "  keep  quiet,  —  once  more,  I  guess,  they  11 
try  it  — 

Here 's  damnation  to  the  cut-throats  !  "  -  then  he  handed 
me  his  flask, 


5  8      GRANDMOTHER 'S  STOR  Y  OF  B  UNKER-HILL  BA  TTLE. 

Saying,  "Gal,  you're    looking   shaky;  have  a  drop  of  old   Ja- 

maiky ; 

I  'm  afeard  there  '11  be  more  trouble  afore  the  job  is  done ;  " 
So  I  took    one   scorching   swallow;    dreadful    faint  I  felt   and 

hollow, 
Standing   there   from    early  morning  when    the  firing  was  be- 


All  through  those  hours  of  trial   I  had  watched  a  calm  clock 

dial, 
As  the    hands  kept    creeping,  creeping,  —  they  were    creeping 

round  to  four, 
When  the  old  man    said,  "  They  're  forming  with   their  bago- 

nets  fixed  for  storming: 
It 's  the  death-grip  that 's  a  coming,  —  they  will  try  the  works 

once  more." 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE.        59 


With  brazen  trumpets  blaring,  the  flames    behind    them   glar 
ing. 

The  deadly  wall  before  them,  in  close  array  they  come ; 
Still  onward,  upward  toiling,  like  a  dragon's  fold  uncoiling,  — 
Like  the  rattlesnake's  shrill  warning  the  reverberating   drum ! 

Over  heaps  all  torn  and  gory  —  shall   I  tell    the  fearful  story, 
How  they  surged    above  the  breastwork  as  a  sea  breaks  over 

a  deck ; 

How,  driven,  yet  scarce  defeated,  our  worn-out  men  retreated, 
With  their  powder-horns  all  emptied,  like  the  swimmers  from 

a  wreck  ? 


It  has  all  been  told  and  painted;  as  for  me,  they  say  I  fainted, 
And    the  wooden-legged  old  Corporal  stumped  with  me  down 

the  stair: 
When   I  woke  from  dreams  affrighted  the  evening  lamps  were 

lighted,  — 
On  the  floor  a  youth  was  lying ;  his  bleeding  breast  was  bare. 


60       GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE. 

And    I    heard    through    all    the    flurry,  "Send    for    WARREN! 

hurry !  hurry  ! 
Tell  him  here  's  a  soldier  bleeding,  and  he  11  come  and  dress 

his  wound !  " 
Ah,  we  knew  not    till    the    morrow  told  its  tale  of  death  and 

sorrow, 
How    the    starlight    found    him    stiffened    on    the    dark    and 

bloody  ground. 

Who    the    youth    was,    what    his    name    was,   where    the   place 

from  which  he  came  was, 
Who  had    brought    him  from  the  battle,  and   had   left  him  at 

our  door, 
He  could    not    speak  to  tell  us;    but    'twas  one  of  our   brave 

fellows, 
As  the  homespun  plainly  showed  us  which  the  dying  soldier 

wore. 


GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY  OF  BUNKER-HILL  BATTLE.      61 

For  they  all    thought   he  was    dying,  as    they  gathered    round 

him  crying, — 
And  they  said,  "  Oh,  how  they  '11  miss  him !  "  and,  "  What  will 

his  mother  do  ?  " 
Then,  his  eyelids    just    unclosing   like  a  child's    that  has  been 

dozing, 
He    faintly  murmured,  "Mother!"-      —and— I    saw    his    eyes 

were  blue. 

"Why,  grandma,   how   you're    winking!"     -Ah,   my   child, 

it  sets  me  thinking 

Of  a  story  not  like  this  one.     Well,  he  somehow  lived  along; 
So  we  came  to  know  each  other,  and   I   nursed  him  like  a  - 

mother, 
Till    at   last    he    stood    before    me,  tall,  and   rosy-cheeked,  and 

strong. 

And  we  sometimes  walked  together  in  the  pleasant  summer 
weather ; 

"Please  to  tell  us  what  his  name  was?"  -Just  your  own, 

my  little  dear,  — 

There's  his  picture  Copley  painted:  we  became  so  well  ac 
quainted, 

That— in  short,  that's  why  I'm  grandma,  and  you  children 
all  are  here ! 


62 


SILL  AND   JOE. 


BILL   AND   JOE. 

COME,  clear  old  comrade,  you  and  I 

Will  steal  an  hour  from  days  gone  by, 

The  shining  days  when  life  was  new, 
And  all   was  bright  with  morning  clew, — 
The  lusty  days  of  long  ago, 
When  you  were  Bill  and  I  was  Joe. 

Your  name  may  flaunt  a  titled  trail 
Proud  as  a  cockerel's  rainbow  tail, 
And  mine  as  brief  appendix  wear 
As  Tarn  O'Shanter's  luckless  mare ; 
To-day,  old  friend,  remember  still 
That  I  am  Joe  and  you  are  Bill. 

You  Ve  won  the  great  world's  envied  prize, 
And  grand  you  look  in  people's  eyes, 
With  HON.  and  L  L.  D. 
In  big  brave  letters,  fair  to  see, — 


BILL   AND    JOE.  63 

Your  fist,  old  fellow!  off  they  go!  — 
How  are  you,  Bill  ?     How  are  you,  Joe  ? 

You've  worn  the  judge's  ermincd  robe; 
You  Ve  taught  your  name  to  half  the  globe ; 
You  Ve  sung  mankind  a  deathless  strain  ; 
You  Ve  made  the  dead  past  live  again : 
The  world  may  call  you  what  it  will, 
But  you  and  I  are   Joe  and  Bill. 

The  chaffing  young  folks  stare  and  say, 

"  See  those  old  buffers,  bent  and  gray,  — 

They  talk  like  fellows  in  their  teens ! 

Mad,  poor  old  boys  !     That 's  what  it  means,"  - 

And  shake  their  heads ;  they  little  know 

The  throbbing  hearts  of  Bill  and  Joe !  — 

How  Bill  forgets  his  hour  of  pride, 
While  Joe  sits  smiling  at  his  side ; 
How  Joe,  in  spite  of  time's  disguise, 
Finds  the  old  schoolmate  in  his  eyes,  — 
Those  calm,  stern  eyes  that  melt  and  fill 
As  Joe  looks  fondly  up  at  Bill. 

Ah,  pensive  scholar,  what  is  fame  ? 

A  fitful  tongue  of  leaping  flame ; 

A  giddy  whirlwind's  fickle  gust, 

That  lifts  a  pinch  of  mortal  dust ; 

A  few  swift  years,  and  who  can  show 

Which  dust  was  Bill  and  which  was  Joe  ? 

The  weary  idol  takes  his  stand, 
Holds  out  his  bruised  and  aching  hand, 
While  gaping  thousands  come  and  go,  — 
How  vain  it  seems,  this  empty  show! 


64  CONTENTMENT. 

Till  all  at  once  his  pulses  thrill ;  — 

Tis  poor  old  Joe's  "God  bless  you,  Bill!" 

And  shall  we  breathe  in  happier  spheres 
The  names  that  pleased  our  mortal  ears ; 
In  some  sweet  lull  of  harp  and  song 
For  earth-born  spirits  none  too  long, 
Just  whispering  of  the  world  below 
Where  this  was  Bill,  and  that  was  Joe? 

No  matter;  while  our  home  is  here 
No  sounding  name  is  half  so  dear; 
When  fades  at  length  our  lingering  day, 
Who  cares  what  pompous  tombstones  say? 
Read  on  the  hearts  that  love  us  still, 
Hie  jacet  Joe.     Hie  jacet  Bill. 


CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

LITTLE  I  ask;  my  wants  are  few; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.  Amen ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victuals  nice ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 


CONTENTMENT. 


I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ;  — 

Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 
Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share, — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names; 
I  would,  perhaps,  be   Plenipo,  — 

But  only  near  St.  James ; 
I  'm  very  sure   I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 


Jewels  are  baubles;  'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

5 


66 


CONTENTMENT. 


My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear;) 
I  own  perhaps   I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere, — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 
Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 
For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor ;  — 
Some  little  luxury  there 


CONTENTMENT.  67 

Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
/  value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 
One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 
Two  Meerschaums,   I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks   I  will  not  learn 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 
Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 

But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 
Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 
I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 


J: 


r*$*i?.    . 


68  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 


THE    DEACON'S   MASTERPIECE; 

OR,    THE    WONDERFUL    "  ONE-HOSS    SHAY." 
A    LOGICAL    STORY. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 

It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then  of  a  sudden,  it—  —ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 

Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 

Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits, — 

Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  clown, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 
It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.  69 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

That  a  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  "  I  dew  vum,"  or  an  "  I  tell  yeou?) 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty,  'n'  all  the  kcntry  raoun'; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldri  break  daown: 
—  "  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes'  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
'n'  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 

Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees, 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue; 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 


Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide; 
Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 
That  was  the  way  he  "put  her  through."  — 
"  There  !  "  said  the  Deacon,  "  naow  she  '11  dew  !  " 

Do !     I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 

She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less  ! 

Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 

Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 

Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 

As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-Earthquake-day ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten ; 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came;  — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 


Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  Earthquake-day  — 
There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 
A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 
But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 
There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whipple-tree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out! 


72  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five! 
This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 
Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way! 
Here  conies  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 
Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 
"Huddup!"  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 
The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  - 
Had  got  to  fifthly,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 

—  First  a  shiver  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 
And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock, 
Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around? 
The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 
As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once, — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first, — 
Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That's  all  I  say. 


DE  SAUTY.  73 


DE    SAUTY. 

AN    ELECTRO-CHEMICAL  ECLOGUE. 
Professor.  Blue-Xose. 

PROFESSOR. 

TELL  me,  O  Provincial !  speak,  Ceruleo-Nasal ! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now  among  you, 
Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thunder, 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  nightcap, 
Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiving  feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  O  Ceruleo-Nasal  ? 
Or  is  he  a  mythus,  —  ancient  word  for  "  humbug,"  • 
Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus  ? 


74  DE  SAUTY. 

Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De  Sauty? 
Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-solution  ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 


BLUE-NOSE. 

Many   things  thou  askest,  jackknife-bearing  stranger, 
Much   conjecturing  mortal,  pork-and-treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine  ear-flap  toward  me, 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When  the  charge  galvanic  tingled  through  the  cable, 
At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us: 
Called  himself  "  DE  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term  mammalia, 
So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire  electric, 
Slicking  in  the  current. 

When    the    current    strengthened,    bloomed     the    pale-faced 

stranger,  — 

Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat  and  rosy,  — 
And  from  time  to  time,   in  sharp  articulation, 
Said,  "  All  right  !  DE  SAUTY." 

From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utterance,  spreading 
Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the  groves  of  steeples, 
Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  reverberations 
Of  "  All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the  mystic  stranger, — 
Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker, — 


DE   SAUT\. 


Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn  odor 


75 


Of  disintegration. 


Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his  forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow  suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 
C.  O.  H.  N.  Fcrrum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil.   Potassa, 
Calc.    Sod.    Phosph.    Mag.    Sulphur,    Mang.  (?)    Alumin.  (?)    Cu 
prum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had  perished ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no  current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear  him 
Cry,  "All  right!  DE  SAUTY." 


THE  FIRST  FAN. 


THE    FIRST    FAN. 

READ   AT   A   MEETING   OF   THE   BOSTON    BRIC-A-BRAC   CLUB, 
FEBRUARY  21,   1877. 

WHEN  rose  the  cry  "  Great  Pan  is  dead !  " 
And  Jove's  high  palace  closed  its  portal, 

The  fallen  gods,  before  they  fled, 
Sold  out  their  frippery  to  a  mortal. 

"To  whom?"  you  ask.     I  ask  of  you. 

The  answer  hardly  needs  suggestion ; 
Of  course  it  was  the  Wandering  Jew, — 
How  could  you  put  me  such  a  question? 

A  purple  robe,  a  little  worn, 

The  Thunderer  deigned  himself  to  offer; 
The  bearded  wanderer  laughed  in  scorn, — 

You  know  he  always  was  a  scoffer. 

"  Vife  shillins  !  't  is  a  monstrous  price ; 

Say  two  and  six  and  further  talk  shun." 
"  Take  it,"  cried  Jove ;  "  we  can't  be  nice,  — 

T  would  fetch  twice  that  at  Leonard's  auction." 


THE  FIRST  FAN.  77 

The  ice  was  broken  ;  up  they  came, 

All  sharp  for  bargains,  god  and  goddess, 

Each  ready  with  the  price  to  name 

For  robe  or  head-dress,  scarf  or  bodice. 

First  Juno,  out  of  temper,  too, — 

Her  queenly  forehead  somewhat  cloudy; 

Then   Pallas  in  her  stockings  blue, 
Imposing,  but  a  little  dowdy. 

The  scowling  queen  of  heaven  unrolled 
Before  the  Jew  a  threadbare  turban: 
"  Three  shillings."     "  One.     'T  will  suit  some  old 
Terrific  feminine  suburban." 

But  as  for  Pallas, —  how  to  tell 

In  seemly  phrase  a  fact  so  shocking  ? 

She  pointed,  — pray  excuse  me,— well, 
She  pointed  to  her  azure  stocking. 

And  if  the  honest  truth  were  told, 

Its  heel  confessed  the  need  of  darning; 
"  Gods  !  "  low-bred  Vulcan  cried,  "  behold  ! 

There!  that's  what  comes  of  too  much  laming!" 

Pale  Proserpine  came  groping  round, 

Her  pupils  dreadfully  dilated 
With  too  much  living  underground,  - 

A  residence  quite  overrated  ; 

"  This  kerchief  's  what  you  want,   I  know,  — 
Don't  cheat  poor  Venus  of  her  cestus,  — 
You  '11  find  it  handy  when  you  go 

To  —  you  know  where;  it's  pure  asbestus." 


78  THE  FIRST  FAN. 

Then  Phoebus  of  the  silver  bow, 
And   Hebe,  dimpled  as  a  baby, 

And  Dian  with  the  breast  of  snow, 

Chaser  and  chased  —  and  caught,  it  may  be 

One  took  the  quiver  from  her  back, 

One  held  the  cap  he  spent  the  night  in, 

And  one  a  bit  of  bric-a-brac, 

Such  as  the  gods  themselves  delight  in. 

Then  Mars,  the  foe  of  human  kind, 

Strode  up  and  showed  his  suit  of  armor; 

So  none  at  last  was  left  behind 
Save  Venus,  the  celestial  charmer. 

Poor  Venus !     What  had  she  to  sell  ? 

For  all  she  looked  so  fresh  and  jaunty, 
Her  wardrobe,  as  I  blush  to  tell, 

Already  seemed  but  quite  too  scanty. 


THE  FIRST  FAN.  79 

Her  gems  were  sold,  her  sandals  gone,  — 
She  always  would  be  rash  and  flighty,  — 

Her  winter  garments  all  in  pawn, 
Alas  for  charming  Aphrodite ! 

The  lady  of  a  thousand  loves, 

The  darling  of  the  old  religion, 
Had  only  left  of  all  the  doves 

That  drew  her  car  one  fan-tailed  pigeon. 

How  oft  upon  her  finger-tips 

He  perched,  afraid  of  Cupid's  arrow, 

Or  kissed  her  on  the  rosebud  lips, 
Like  Roman  Lcsbia's  loving  sparrow ! 

"  My  bird,   I  want  your  train,"  she  cried  ; 

"  Come,  don't  let 's  have  a  fuss  about  it ; 
I  '11  make  it  beauty's  pet  and  pride, 
And  you  '11  be  better  off  without  it. 

"  So  vulgar !     Have  you  noticed,  pray, 

An  earthly  belle  or  dashing  bride  walk, 
And  how  her  flounces  track  her  way, 
Like  slimy  serpents  on  the  sidewalk  ? 

"  A  lover's  heart  it  quickly  cools  ; 

In  mine  it  kindles  up  enough  rage 
To  wring  their  necks.     How  can  such  fools 
Ask  men  to  vote  for  woman  suffrage  ?  " 

The  goddess  spoke,  and  gently  stripped 

Her  bird  of  every  caudal  feather; 
A  strand  of  gold-bright  hair  she  clipped, 

And  bound  the  glossy  plumes  together, 


8o  THE  FIRST  FAN. 

And  lo,  the  Fan  !  for  beauty's  hand, 
The  lovely  queen  of  beauty  made  it ; 

The  price  she  named  was  hard  to  stand, 
But  Venus  smiled:  the  Hebrew  paid  it. 

Jove,  Juno,  Venus,  where  are  you  ? 

Mars,  Mercury,  Phoebus,  Neptune,  Saturn  ? 
But  o'er  the  world  the  Wandering  Jew 

Has  borne  the  Fan's  celestial  pattern. 

So  everywhere  we  find  the  Fan,  — 

In  lonely  isles  of  the  Pacific, 
In  farthest  China  and  Japan,  — 

Wherever  suns  are  sudorific. 

Nay,  even  the  oily  Esquimaux 

In  summer  court  its  cooling  breezes,  — 

In  fact,  in  every  clime  't  is  so, 
No  matter  if  it  fries  or  freezes. 

And  since  from  Aphrodite's  dove 
The  pattern  of  the  fan  was  given, 

No  wonder  that  it  breathes  of  love 
And  wafts  the  perfumed  gales  of  heaven! 

Before  this  new  Pandora's  gift 

In  slavery  woman's  tyrant  kept  her, 

But  now  he  kneels  her  glove  to  lift,  — 
The  fan  is  mightier  than  the  sceptre. 

The  tap  it  gives  how  arch  and  sly! 

The  breath  it  wakes  how  fresh  and  grateful ! 
Behind  its  shield  how  soft  the  sigh! 

The  whispered  tale  of  shame  how  fateful ! 


THE  FIRST  FAN. 

Its  empire  shadows  every  throne 

And  every  shore  that  man  is  tost  on  ; 

It  rules  the  lords  of  every  zone, 

Nay,  even  the  bluest  blood  of  Boston  ! 

But  every  one  that  swings  to-night, 
Of  fairest  shape,  from  farthest  region, 

May  trace  its  pedigree  aright 
To  Aphrodite's  fan-tailed  pigeon. 


NEARING   THE    SNOW 
LINE. 

SLOW  toiling  upward  from  the 
misty  vale, 

I  leave  the  bright  enamelled 
zones  below ; 

No  more  for  me  their  beauteous  bloom  shall  glow, 
Their  lingering  sweetness  load  the  morning  gale ; 
Few  are  the  slender  flowerets,  scentless,  pale, 

That  on  their  ice-clad  stems  all  trembling  blow 

Along  the  margin  of  unmelting  snow; 
Yet  with  unsaddened  voice  thy  verge  I  hail, 

White  realm  of  peace  above  the  flowering  line  ; 
Welcome  thy  frozen  domes,  thy  rocky  spires  ! 

O'er  thee  undimmed  the  moon-girt  planets  shine, 
On  thy  majestic  altars  fade  the  fires 
That  filled  the  air  with  smoke  of  vain  desires, 

And  all  the  unclouded  blue  of  heaven  is  thine! 
1870. 


-  -  -•=-- 


THE    SILENT    MELODY. 

"  BRING  me  my  broken  harp,"  he  said; 

"  We  both  are  wrecks,  —  but  as  ye  will,  — 
Though    all  its  ringing  tones  have  fled, 

Their  echoes  linger  round  it  still ; 
It  had  some  golden  strings,  I  know, 
But  that  was  long,  —  how  long  !  —  ago. 

"  I  cannot  see  its  tarnished  gold, 

I  cannot  hear  its  vanished  tone, 
Scarce  can  my  trembling  fingers  hold 

The  pillared  frame  so  long  their  own  ; 
We  both  are  wrecks,  —  a  while  ago 
It  had  some  silver  strings,   I  know, 

"  But  on  them   Time  too  long  has  played 

The  solemn   strain  that  knows  no  change, 

And  where  of  old  my  fingers  strayed 

The  chords  they  find  are  new  and  strange,— 

Yes!  iron  strings, —  I  know,  —  I  know, — 

We  both  arc  wrecks  of  long  ago. 


We  both  arc  wrecks.  —  a  shattered  pair,  — 
Strange  to  ourselves  in  time's  disguise  .  .  . 

What  say  ye  to  the  lovesick  air 

That  brought  the  tears  from   Marian's  eyes  ? 

Ay  !  trust  me,  —  under  breasts  of  snow 

Hearts  could  be  melted  long  ago! 


84  THE   SILENT  MELODY. 

"  Or  will  ye  hear  the  storm-song's  crash 

That  from  his  dreams  the  soldier  woke, 
And  bade  him  face  the  lightning  flash 

When  battle's  cloud  in  thunder  broke?  ..." 
Wrecks,  —  nought  but  wrecks  !  —  the  time  was  when 
We  two  were  worth  a  thousand  men  ! " 

And  so  the  broken  harp  they  bring 

With  pitying  smiles  that  none  could  blame; 

Alas  !  there 's  not  a  single  string 

Of  all  that  filled  the  tarnished  frame  ! 

But  see!  like  children  overjoyed, 

His  fingers  rambling  through  the  void  ! 

"  I  clasp  thee !     Ay  .  .  .  mine  ancient  lyre  .  .  . 

Nay,  guide  my  wandering  fingers.  .  .  .  There  ! 
They  love  to  dally  with  the  wire 

As   Isaac  played  with  Esau's  hair.  .  .  . 
Hush  !  ye  shall  hear  the  famous  tune 
That  Marian  called  the  Breath  of  June!" 


THE  SILENT  MELODY. 

And  so  they  softly  gather  round  : 

Rapt  in  his  tuneful  trance  he  seems: 
His  fingers  move:  but  not  a  sound! 

A  silence  like  the  song  of  dreams.  .  .   . 
"  There !  ye  have  heard  the  air,"  he  cries, 
"  That  brought  the  tears  from   Marian's  eyes ! " 


Ah,  smile  not  at  his  fond  conceit, 

Nor  deem  his  fancy  wrought  in  vain  ; 

To  him  the  unreal  sounds  are  sweet,  — 
No  discord  mars  the  silent  strain 

Scored  on  life's  latest,  starlit  page  — 

The  voiceless  melody  of  age. 

Sweet  are  the  lips  of  all  that  sing, 

When  Nature's  music  breathes  unsought, 

But  never  yet  could  voice  or  string 
So  truly  shape  our  tenderest  thought 

As  when  by  life's  decaying  fire 

Our  fingers  sweep  the  stringless  lyrel 


86 


THE  IRON  GATE. 


THE    IRON    GATE. 


READ  AT  THE  BREAKFAST  GIVEN  IN  HONOR  OF  DR.  HOLMES'S 
SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY  BY  THE  PUBLISHERS  OF  THE  ATLAN 
TIC  MONTHLY,  BOSTON,  DECEMBER  3,  1879. 

WHERE  is  this  patriarch  you  are  kindly  greeting? 

Not  unfamiliar  to  my  ear  his  name, 
Nor  yet  unknown  to  many  a  joyous  meeting 

In  days  long  vanished,  —  is  he  still  the  same, 

Or  changed  by  years,  forgotten  and  forgetting, 

Dull-eared,  dim-sighted,  slow  of  speech  and  thought, 

Still  o'er  the  sad,  degenerate  present  fretting, 

Where  all  goes  wrong,  and  nothing  as  it  ought  ? 

Old  age,  the  graybeard !     Well,  indeed,  I  know  him,  — 
Shrunk,  tottering,  bent,  of  aches  and  ills  the  prey ; 


THE  IRON  GATE. 

In  sermon,  story,  fable,  picture,  poem, 

Oft  have  I  met  him  from  my  earliest  day : 

In  my  old  /Esop,  toiling  with  his  bundle,  — 
His  load  of  sticks,  —  politely  asking  Death, 

Who  comes  when  called  for,  —  would  he  lug  or  trundle 
His  fagot  for  him  ?  —  he  was  scant  of  breath. 

And  sad  "  Ecclesiastes,  or  the   Preacher,"  — 
Has  he  not  stamped  the  image  on  my  soul, 

In  that  last  chapter,  where  the  worn-out  Teacher 
Sighs  o'er  the  loosened  cord,  the  broken  bowl  ? 

Yes,  long,  indeed,   I  Ve  known  him  at  a  distance, 
And  now  my  lifted  door-latch  shows  him  here ; 

I  take  his  shrivelled  hand  without  resistance, 
And  find  him  smiling  as  his  step  draws  near. 

What  though  of  gilded  baubles  he  bereaves  us, 
Dear  to  the  heart  of  youth,  to  manhood's  prime ; 

Think  of  the  calm  he  brings,  the  wealth  he  leaves  us, 
The  hoarded  spoils,  the  legacies  of  time ! 

Altars  once  flaming,  still  with  incense  fragrant, 
Passion's  uneasy  nurslings  rocked  asleep, 

Hope's  anchor  faster,  wild  desire  less  vagrant, 
Life's  flow  less  noisy,  but  the  stream  how  deep  ! 

Still  as  the  silver  cord  gets  worn  and  slender, 

Its  lightened  task-work  tugs  with  lessening  strain, 

Hands  get  more  helpful,  voices,  grown  more  tender, 
Soothe  with  their  softened  tones  the  slumberous  brain. 

Youth  longs  and  manhood  strives,  but  age  remembers, 
Sits  by  the  raked-up  ashes  of  the  past, 


88  THE  IRON  GATE. 

Spreads  its  thin  hands  above  the  whitening  embers 
That  warm  its  creeping  life-blood  till  the  last. 

Dear  to  its  heart  is  every  loving  token 

That  comes  unbidden  ere  its  pulse  grows  cold, 

Ere  the  last  lingering  ties  of  life  are  broken, 
Its  labors  ended  and  its  story  told. 

Ah,  while  around  us  rosy  youth  rejoices, 

For  us  the  sorrow-laden  breezes  sigh, 
And  through  the  chorus  of  its  jocund  voices 

Throbs  the  sharp  note  of  misery's  hopeless  cry, 

As  on  the  gauzy  wings  of  fancy  flying 

From  some  far  orb  I  track  our  watery  sphere, 

Home  of  the  struggling,  suffering,  doubting,  dying, 
The  silvered  globule  seems  a  glistening  tear. 

But  Nature  lends  her  mirror  of  illusion 

To  win  from  saddening  scenes  our  age-dimmed  eyes, 
And  misty  day-dreams  blend  in  sweet  confusion 

The  wintry  landscape  and  the  summer  skies. 

So  when  the  iron  portal  shuts  behind  us, 
And  life  forgets  us  in  its  noise  and  whirl, 

Visions  that  shunned  the  glaring  noonday  find  us, 
And  glimmering  starlight  shows  the  gates  of  pearl. 

—  I  come  not  here  your  morning  hour  to  sadden, 
A  limping  pilgrim,  leaning  on  his  staff, — 

I,  who  have  never  deemed  it  sin  to  gladden 
This  vale  of  sorrows  with  a  wholesome  laugh. 

If  word  of  mine  another's  gloom  has  brightened, 

Through  my  dumb  lips  the  heaven-sent  message  came; 


THE  IRON  GATE. 


89 


If  hand  of  mine  another's  task  has  lightened, 
It  felt  the  guidance  that  it  dares  not  claim. 

But,  O  my  gentle  sisters,  O  my  brothers, 

These  thick-sown  snow-flakes  hint  of  toil's  release ; 

These  feebler  pulses  bid  me  leave  to  others 

The  tasks  once  welcome ;  evening  asks  for  peace. 

Time  claims  his  tribute;  silence  now  is  golden; 

Let  me  not  vex  the  too  long-suffering  lyre; 
Though  to  your  love  untiring  still  beholden, 

The  curfew  tells  me  —  cover  up  the  fire. 

And  now  with  grateful  smile  and  accents  cheerful, 
And  warmer  heart  than  look  or  word  can  tell, 

In  simplest  phrase  —  these  traitorous  eyes  are  tearful  — 
Thanks,  Brothers,  Sisters  —  Children  —  and  farewell ! 


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